


Drag

by Blackpenny



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8605219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: This is inspired by Darkrogue's story, The Elisabeth Walsh Case. Like Blake, Olrik is a master of disguise. Surely, he's impersonated a woman in his time!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/gifts).



The cops have clearly narrowed his whereabouts to a neighborhood, but not a building. Olrik has watched their too-casual promenades up and down his busy street. They’re so obvious in their carefully pressed budget suits. They loiter ostentatiously, squeezing fruit but never buying it. Sometimes they pretend to be old friends meeting up as they exchange information. One fellow has shown up at least four times with different facial hair. By now even the children of the market know that something is up and they mock the lawmen behind their backs, much to Olrik’s amusement.

Of course, just because these cops are ridiculous doesn’t mean there aren’t more men who know how to hide out there. Olrik has provisions for a few days, but that’s it. Worse, none of his own people know where he is. This was a two-person job, but with his contact free and clear, the colonel is on his own and he needs to get out.

Olrik gazes out the window and almost instantly spots four cops “casually” meeting. Why do they stand out so much? It hits him that they are the only men of their age on the street. Most of the daytime inhabitants are women of all ages and children, plus a few withered ancients who seem to spend their days playing backgammon and telling lies. Most of the able-bodied adult men are in the armed forces, or at work in the city, or away on the farms. The market is a zone of femininity of varying charm: maidens, mothers, and crones.

An idea begins to percolate in the colonel’s mind. The young women are pleasant enough, and some are very pretty in a modest way that doesn’t do much for him. The busiest women are those with broods of children and market stalls to manage. They tend to plumpness and disheveled hair, although many have an earthy beauty best set off by the setting sun. The most interesting ones at the moment, however, are the very old ladies, the black-clad crows with rough voices and loud cackles. Even the ones who carry canes seem to be as tough as teak. These people are generally tall and big-boned, raised on fatty milk, meat, and cabbage. How very admirable and cooperative of them, the colonel muses.

That evening, when the market is quiet and dim, Olrik gambles on the power of gold and approaches the widow from ground floor. Once she’s tested the authenticity of his coin, this fine lady doesn’t care what he’s done or who might be after him. She gladly hands over a shawl, headscarf, and a full-skirted black dress. As he turns to leave, the old woman pokes him and hands over her ragged shopping bag with a shockingly toothy grin.

The following morning Olrik rises before dawn to put his face on. He doesn’t have his full disguise kit, but he thinks that what he does have will do for a brief getaway. After a very close and complete shave (goodbye, moustache!), he stains his hands by mixing a bit of brown dye in lotion and working it in until his hands look weathered. Next, he applies coats of foundation to his face to further simulate years in the sun. With a light, steady hand Olrik applies wrinkles one by one. He squints or grimaces, then carefully fills in the lines, blending just enough. It takes nearly an hour to add 30 years to his face. Pomade and white powder takes care of the hairline. Olrik takes a look at the results, then adds a bit of soap lather to his hands and face to give himself a flaky, diseased appearance. Nobody will want to look at him for more than a second. 

Although the widow is big for a woman, she is still a head shorter than the colonel. He dresses in his own underwear, shirt, and trousers and stuffs the rest of his kit into the shopping bag. He rolls up his pant cuffs and shirtsleeves and slips on the dress. It looks ridiculous, but by leaving the top half unbuttoned the colonel is able to drape the bodice over his shoulders and cover his arms to the wrists. The shawl is big enough to cover a table, never mind his shirt. Once the headscarf is pinned over his powdered hair, Olrik looks, well, not exacty like an old woman, but certainly not like himself. 

Like any master of disguise, Olrik knows how to appear smaller than he is. He caves in his shoulders, stoops over, and bends his knees until the skirt brushes his boot tops. Good. He practices different gaits before the mirror before settling on a kind of determined shuffle. Chin out or chin down? Down is better, but not in a humble way. Glare at the ground. Olrik tries out the face with the shuffle. It’s a convincing effect, even better when he clutches the shopping bag to his chest. This might just do the trick. It only has to do the trick for a few minutes.

With a deep breath and something almost like a prayer, Olrik opens the door of his flat, glares at the ground, and slowly, surely, makes his way to the square.


End file.
